Not While I'm Around
by trufflemores
Summary: 5x15, "Bash" reaction fic. "Nothing's gonna harm you ... not while I'm around." Missing scene. Kurt wakes up to Blaine singing in the hospital. Hurt/comfort, angst. Trigger warning: reference to assault. Klaine. COMPLETE.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Glee or any of its characters; Ryan Murphy and Co. hold that honor. I'm simply writing this for fun, not profit.

Kurt awakens to singing.

Actually, he awakens to a heart rate monitor, beeping so steadily and irrepressibly in the background that it pierces the foggy veil of drug-induced sleep and drags him back to consciousness. He keeps his eyes shut for several long moments, aware of a faint humming near his right ear. Calm washes over him at the warm press of a hand against his hip, a familiar weight nestled at his side. The sense of rightness is so strong that even medicated and half-conscious, Kurt knows who it is.

And God, his singing is beautiful.

"Blaine," he mumbles drowsily, tilting his cheek towards him, one hand creeping upward and oh, that's sore. Even the tiny movement to take a deep breath aches in his chest, his senses slowly awakening to other things, too.

"Kurt?" Blaine's voice is high, almost wobbling with distress, but it comes out smooth and soothing as Kurt makes a confirmatory grunt. "It's okay, you're okay. Don't move, angel. Please don't move."

"Blaine," Kurt repeats, a little more breathily now that he actually has air in his lungs, reaching up a hand to tangle a hand in Blaine's sweater. And oh, how he loves his sweaters; he wants to rub his cheek against it and purr, it's so soft and warmed by his skin, just waiting to pillow his head. Hospital pillows can never measure up to Blaine's outfits.

Hospital. Opening his eye – the left eye is sealed shut, oh – he blinks fuzzily up at the ceiling for a moment, aware of the top of Blaine's head in the right field of his vision. "Blaine," he entreats a third time, holding out his palm in wordless supplication, bruised knuckles and all.

Blaine takes it and squeezes, so gently, barely pressure at all, just warm skin against warm skin, and Kurt feels relief seep into him even as a dozen aches spring to life along his arm. "How long've – how long have I been out?" he asks in a sluggish murmur.

"About – about two hours. They gave you some morphine, thought it might take the edge off." Blaine's voice is still at that soft, soothing level that makes Kurt want to wrap himself in it and never leave. "How are you feeling? Do you need more painkillers? I can call a nurse –"

Blaine is already shifting to press the call button when Kurt's fingers tighten around his sleeve and oh, oh, oh, sings his scraped, battered hand. He doesn't know what noise he makes, exactly – a whine or a whimper; either way, he isn't proud of it – but Blaine's hand is there as he shuffles back into place, hugging him sideways and murmuring over and over, "It's okay, it's okay. I'm so sorry, Kurt, you're – it's okay, baby, I'm right here. I'm right here."

And God, he must look terrible if Blaine's reduced to babbling. Blaine never loses his composure. Not like this.

"Honey?" he asks, hoping to steady him a little because there's a lump in his throat and he doesn't know _why _it's there, it's ridiculous, except that he was scared, so scared once he realized what was happening, ears ringing, blind with rage and fear and a need to fight back, until he couldn't fight and the world was dark and then too bright, equally terrifying. He doesn't know why there's a lump in his throat or tears burning rivulets into his skin as Blaine shushes him and cradles his undamaged cheek so tenderly, sweeping his thumb over it.

"I've got you, I'm here, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Take a deep breath," he advises in a rasp.

Blaine's tears are hot against his skin and he can tell by the choked sniffles that he's trying not to let them flow at all, but it's just _so much, Kurt, so much I'm so sorry I'm so sorry._

He's broken and Kurt's too broken to fix him, so he drags him to his chest instead and cries into his hair.

And the gel should be gross, the pain should make him pull away but he can't do anything but cling to him, needing him more than he's ever needed someone before. He still can't open his left eye and his right is so swarmed with tears that he doesn't know how he can see anything other than the fine press of trapped curls in front of them, rubbing Blaine's back slowly as though he can soothe the pain from his own body by meaning it enough.

His chest is sore, his eyes – even the sealed shut one – feel gritty, and his mouth is full of cotton by the time the tears abate. He doesn't stop rubbing Blaine's back until he shifts upright again, almost mechanically, and shuffles up the bed so that he's leaning against Kurt, face tucked against his shoulder.

Kurt knows that he should be angry. He knows that anger is natural, _normal _after trauma. But he can't find it in him, drained of every emotion but a deep, pulsing relief that he isn't alone. He's almost overwhelmed with affection for Blaine, letting out a tiny, appreciative sigh as he tugs his arm more comfortably over his middle, almost like his own personal safety blanket.

"I'm not going anywhere," Blaine promises in a whisper, as though it's theirs.

Kurt half-wants to tell him, _Carry me home. _He wants to slip into the warm cradle of his arms and plead, _Carry me home. _He wants to feel the familiar softness of his own sheets slipping around him as sleep beckons him forward, every instinct in him reaching out and begging, C_arry me home, Blaine._

He doesn't say the words because he knows that Blaine _can't, _but Kurt still accepts the tiny cup of water that Blaine helps him drink without protest. As he moves, Blaine does his best to jostle the bed as little as possible so that he doesn't hurt Kurt, settling back down at his side once Kurt turns his head away to indicate that he's had his fill. When Blaine's arm settles around him, it's home, and Kurt lets out a slow breath of relief as he listens to Blaine's breathing, rhythmic and calm and far more reassuring than any heart monitor could ever be.

_Sing to me, _he thinks, his own voice so soft that the words barely register to his ears when he speaks.

"Sing to me," he commands, his own voice a little stronger even as his eyelid slides shut.

Blaine's breathing is loud for a moment and then utterly silent before he sings softly, "_Nothing's . . . gonna harm you. Not while I'm around._"

Kurt's lips twitch in spite of himself, so sore, so tender that he whines again and Blaine is there, pressing closer, holding him so gently that Kurt doesn't even need to shuffle away for fear of awakening new pains. He knows Blaine. He trusts him.

Safe in his arms, he listens to him sing, steady as a lullaby, certain as a promise, until only the echoes sink with him into sleep, wrapping around him like a safety blanket, like love, like peace.

_Nothing's gonna harm you, no sir, not while I'm around._

_Demons are prowling everywhere nowadays._

_I'll send 'em howling, I don't care, I've got ways._

And then, so soft he can almost dream it, Blaine whispers for him alone, "_No one's gonna hurt you, Kurt, no one's gonna dare. Others can desert you, but – whistle – and I'll be there."_

Tightening his fingers around Blaine's, Kurt doesn't let go of him even as he surrenders fully to his dreams once more, dreams of silence and warm sheets and home.


End file.
